Why I was late today, and will probably always be late as a black woman

My father begged me to never take the busAnd like 1950 somethingAll the negroes are sitting at the back of this oneCoincidence, I am sureBut one of us negroes is drunk and loud and vulgarHe boasts about his time in jailAnd this negro throws the other N word around like a Jim Crow boomerangAnd I feel my skin get hotAll that melaninAbsorbing the sun butStill reflecting off each otherIt’s blinding such that we become indistinguishable to othersAnd I fear that the beige ears and blue eyes in front of me are thinking we are all drunk and loud and vulgarMy brown eyes catch the brown eyes of the sister next to me as we confide in each otherOur silent shameWe know they hate himI think they hate usI start to hate myselfAnd I too hate him for making me hate myself againI think

And suddenlyLike he could hear my thoughtsthis stranger decides to direct his drunk, loud, vulgar self at meI politely decline his conversationSeveral timesThe way all women have rehearsed the structured improvisation of harassmentThat always ends in insults and FUsHe says I am a stereotypical black womanI wonder about stereotypical kettles and pots

And just as his harsh words escalate the world stopsOr just the bus(I’m still not sure)As the driver comes back to find out what the problem isAnd this drunk and loud and vulgar man who has been annoying everyone But only really bothering meStands upGrabs his only weapon:his clothed black cockTo defend his right to talk to meWho has declined this conversation

The driver walks awayBack to the front of the busAnd finally his drunk and loud and vulgar brain figures it out:His place on the food chainThis white woman is pulling the Trump cardShe is restoring Law and OrderAnd as we wait for the policeOn the side of the highwayThis drunk and loud and vulgar manQuiets down and sobers upTo apologize and beg this stereotypical black woman for mercyHe asks me to tell them we don’t have a problemHe calls me babeI make him say my nameHe tells me his life will be messed up if he doesn’t get to where he’s goingI know that I will be messed up if he ends up in cuffsOr in a coffinBecause of this nightThis night that reminds me of how much I hate being black and a womanThis curseI give him my phone to call his familyI remind him to prayI comfort this man who has cursed me and everyone who looks like meAnd when three cop cars show upI walk through the aisle of blue eyes As they burn through my melaninskin peeling off to reveal a layer of red boned privilegeMy summer tan disappears and I codeswitchInto the type of girl who feels safe around boys in blueAnd I try really really hard to make this black life matter before they make the kind of judgement that cannot be undoneAnd after they put him in the back of one of three cop cars that showed up in response to one drunk, loud, vulgar manOf colorOne of the boys in blue asks me again if I knew this manI tell them again that I don’t but perhaps at this point I doI feel like Peter denying the Son of God before his crucifixion The cop looks at me in disbelief and says “then why did you get off the bus with him?”And I want to say because Trayvon, because Mike, because Eric, because Philando, because Altonbecause…he is drunk and loved and vulnerable and his life mattersAnd I forgive himBut this character I am playing doesn’t talk like thatSo I upwardly inflect “I just wanted you to have all the information”And I leave the boys in blue to join the blue eyes on the busWe take off and I pretend that we are headed to the same destinationAnd maybe we are but somehow I always find myself lostDelayed at these invisible intersections